In which Mycroft cries and other Impossible Things happen
by Roshwen
Summary: My parking spot for short stories, drabbles, oneshots and 221b's. Can contain everything but outright slash. May eventually include pre-slash, mild swearing, game-related violence and more scary stuff. Be warned.
1. The melting Ice Man

**AN: This is the first of a list of short story prompts currently waiting patiently in my 'to write' folder. I can't make any predictions whatsoever on when I'll update, so I hope you will bear with me. **

**First prompt: _In which Mycroft cries. _I know, it's not really crying as well the cause of it, but hey, this was hard enough, all right? Imagine, the Ice Man reduced to tears..**

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**The melting Ice Man**

By day, he is the Ice Man. Cool as a cucumber, with the shark-like smile and impeccable suit that will never shout it out but do politely whisper _power. _He stands tall and self-assured, making anyone else in turn feel small, unimportant, weak. That is what he does, that is what his job is all about: making people feel intimidated so they will do what you need them to do.

He never gets involved, never gets attached, always remains distant. No sentiment. They will serve only to distract and destruct, he knows that. He only allows himself the small ones -the flicker of a smile, a dissapproving glare, an exasperated sigh- when they are of use to him. After all, he won't let himself be distracted, but if someone else will, by all means, go ahead. Be his guest. He is in control of his emotions like a puppet player, pulling each string precisely when he means to.

That is during the day. During the night, the Ice Man melts.

Not every night, fortunately. Most nights he sleeps the sleep of the just, and he is as surprised as anyone would be, if they ever found out.

Some nights, however, are different. They are bad. During these nights, the strings are snatched out of his puppet master hand and taken over by someone else, someone buried dark and deep and far away.

To put it bluntly: the British Government has nightmares.

Not your normal kind of nightmares, mind you. A normal nightmare is just a very unpleasant dream that makes no sense at all (chased by a cauliflower, eaten by dark blue goo, etc.), and are easily laughed away in the morning. No, these are the _other _kind of nightmares, the realistic ones that dig into your subconcious, find the right buttons and start pressing them until there is nothing left but fear and tears. The dreams that say: _You are alone. _

Or: _No one loves you. _

Or: _He is dead. _

Or: _You will die. _

Or: _Remember this?_

The dream of the Ice Man says no such thing. There is only one thing that can melt him, reduce him to tears, real, genuine tears and it's this.

What Mycroft Holmes sees during those long, dreadful nights are his father, his mother and his little brother saying what he knows is true and what will be forever ringing in his head: _You were not there when needed you. We asked you to help us. You were my son, my brother and you should have come to us, but you left us. You abandoned us.__** You were not there. **_

The most terrifying part of this? It is all completely true. He never cared much about his father's wish that he take over the family business. He left his mother and Sherlock on their own when his father died, to busy climbing the ranks behind the scenes of Downing Street. He set a criminal mastermind loose after his brother, forcing him to burn all his ships behind him and literally fall into disgrace.

The nightmares have every right to be there. But only during the night. By day, he will remain cold and distant. Like an Ice Man ought to be.


	2. He is not here

**Summary: We've seen a lot of angsty fics in which John commits suicide after Reichenbach. But what happens when he finds out Sherlock is not in Heaven?**

**Disclaimer: nothing is mine. Please don't take this depiction of Heaven/Hell seriously.**

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**He is not here**

The air around him was warm and, according to all expectation, filled with soft music. John was a bit surprised to learn that there actually were pearly gates resting on the clouds, with a golden city behind them, or that there actually was something that very much looked like a cashier's booth in front of the gates, in which a man with an enormous beard sat browsing through the largest book he'd ever seen. _Not just the Pearly Gates and the Golden City, but St. Peter too_, he thought. _Seems like Grandma was right after all. _

But who was he to dissaprove of the looks of Heaven? Not now, when he'd finally gotten here and would soon be reunited with Sherlock. Althouhg he probably needed to stop him first from harassing angels or deducing the lifestory of everyone he had met so far.

So he took a metaphorical deep breath and walked up to the booth. A bit unsure, because honestly, what do you say to a two-thousand year old saint who is in charge of letting you in to paradise, he stood and cleared his throat.

St. Peter looked up from the book and asked with obvious disinterest: 'name'?

John had expected a more personal welcome, but soon thought that he must be far from the first there that day. 'John. John Watson,' he said.

At the mention of his name, all indifference cleared off of Peter's face, to be replaced with strange concern. 'John Hamish Watson,' he asked as if to clarify, 'army doctor, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, from London, England?'

John nodded, a bit unsure. 'That's me.'

Peter sighed and looked at John, his concern evolved into sadness. 'I am sorry,' he said softly. 'He is not here.'

No name, but that wasn't necessary. There was only one person John wanted to meet in Heaven, and it sure wasn't Abraham.

'What do you mean _he's not here,_' he asked, his voice confused with a hint of upcoming fury. 'He has to be. He was good man, whatever he thought of himself, and he has to be somewhere in there, probably bored out of his mind.'

'He is not here nor down there, John,' Peter said. 'Not in Heaven and not in Hell, because he's not dead yet. The other one is, however, unfortunately. Last thing I heard was him and someone named Davros combining forces to overthrow Lucifer.'

John smiled despite only hearing half of it. If Sherlock wasn't here, it had all been useless. Provoking the serial killer, taking the bullet for Lestrade, fighting all his insticts yelling at him to hold on to life. He could have survived, he really could. The injury was not lethal on itself, but he had chosen to give up. For Sherlock. And now it turned out Sherlock, again, wasn't were he expected him to be. As always.

The bastard. The complete and utter _arse._

Well, there was only one thing he could do. Without a word, John turned his back to Peter and the Pearly Gates, and started walking in the direction were he'd come from. He heard the Saint yell and shout at him, something about _impossible, you can't, _and _no way back, John, stop it and come here so I can register you¸_but he didn't listen. He just kept walking and there was no power in Heaven or Hell that could stop him.

Or, if there was Someone Who could stop him, He did not do anything. John kept on walking for miles and miles, until he opened his eyes to see a certain consulting detective glaring at him.

'You flatlined,' Sherlock scolded him.

John simply smiled. 'There you are.'

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**I don't see John committing suicide, so I had him take a bullet and giving in. Plus, I may have slipped a teensy tiny bit of Wholock in there. Hope you liked it!**


	3. The Hedgehog will not be buggered at all

**A 221b, inspired by Nanny Ogg. Have fun!**

John came home to find Sherlock trying to teach a hedgehog to find its way through a maze mainly consisting of piled up books. The apparent reward was a bunch of grapes at the end.

Before he'd even opened his mouth, Sherlock had already started answering the hundred or so questions John wasn't even sure he wanted an answer to.

'He was messing with Mrs. Hudson's garbage. I'm measuring his intelligence to determine whether he'd make an interesting pet. In case he is, his name's Martin.'

John went for the most obvious of the remaining ninety-eight questions. 'Why Martin?'

Sherlock shrugged, still watching the hedgehog, which by now decided Fuck This and rolled up in a tiny prickly ball. 'He just looks like a Martin.'

Of course he did.

'No, Sherlock,' John said, in a tone of voice he thought he used way too often to a grown man, 'you can't keep wild animals in a flat, not even when you give them names. I'm calling the RSPCA.'

Martin the Hedgehog remained impassive, even when poked with a ruler. Sherlock scowled at it and huffed in annoyance.

'I'm serious, Sherlock. Don't fuck with the hedgehog.'

Sherlock's scowl was redirected and settled on John. 'Spoilsport.'

'I sure am. Now, go and find Martin a box before he starts peeing on my books.'


End file.
